Not My Cup of D

The prosthetic boobs had been a resounding success on our get-a-way weekend.  Such positive reinforcement lulled my lazy and simplistic brain into believing I had found the "perfect" solution.  The prosthetics were essentially "boobs on demand."  I figured I could wear them when I wanted a little attention or when I wanted to put curves in my clothing. I also had the choice to not wear them at all.   It seemed like a "win, win," but it has not panned out that way for me.

First of all, they are damned heavy.  After more than a year of running around boob-free, strapping on the new set feels like I'm going for a day hike.  If the new bra had a couple extra pouches for a ten essentials kit and one liter water bottle, it would equal the weight I'd carry up Dog Mountain.  I wore them to a fancy award dinner a few months ago.  My glitzy wrap top needed "the girls" to pull off the look.  They did make the outfit look good and I was able to diminish the annoying sensation of wearing them for a few hours.

When we got home, I could not wait to take them off.  As soon as I cruised through the kitchen, my hands were snaking up under my top to release the burden.  I was done wrestling the weighted bra by the time I passed the piano,which is where I deposited them without another thought.  The next day, I had to laugh when I caught a glimpse of the piano with it's "D Majors" sitting casually on the keyboard cover.    Surely Beethoven must be rolling over in his grave at such cavalier disrespect for das klavier.  I left them there, captive in the bra, for quite some time.  Ignoring and neglecting them was my lame attempt to demonstrate my dissatisfaction with them.  Note to self: inanimate objects always win emotional wars.

Secondly, the prosthetics have not worked for me because I have not mastered the mental muddle of wearing boobs part-time.  They are so miserable, heavy and hot that I cannot imagine wearing them on a daily basis.  Therefore, if boobs are not my "baseline," it feels strange to randomly appear sporting boobs at work or social events.  Who knew prosthetics required consistency to accomplish the pseudo-authenticity of a double-breasted woman?  If I wore them all day, everyday, I would surely take them off at bedtime.  That would be the antithesis of a signal to my husband that fun awaited.  Not wearing them every day and then putting them on at bedtime is also a set-up for a set-up.   The "expectation billboard" gets lit-up with halogen lights if I only put them on to signal time for action.

Having done the marine crawl through regimented intercourse during infertility treatment, I can attest to expectation having the polar opposite effect of Viagra.  Jokes are easy to make about infertility's required frequency of love-making being a "first class problem," but the reality is that protracted clinical demands eventually drain any joy out of the marital lake.  Once we were blessed with conception, I was not able to "bounce back" to my pre-infertility mindset about sex.  Three years of forcing a mood and juggling myriads of less-than-sensual emotions had left a kind of bruise.  It would be several years before I would be able to make love without any association to the taskiness of our previously essential pattern.  It is easy to understand why I might bristle at the thought of hanging an expectation out there which would put my husband in a "damned if you do and damned if you don't" position as well.  Where is the "win, win" now?  I would settle for just "win," but I don't even see that on the horizon.

Not in a million years, would I have ever predicted how important breasts were to the spontaneity of my romantic life.  My husband's admiration of them pleased my feminine vanity.  I liked the power of being able to flash my cleavage for a consistent response.  I liked the way he looked at me/them when I had them.  It was fun to be groped and those touches and kisses were usually what got the party started. Our definition of foreplay had consistently narrowed itself to the boob playground.  So what is a girl to do now?  I am not convinced, however, that reconstructive surgery is the answer to this dilemma.  From the man's perspective, reconstruction may fill the gap more than adequately.  From the woman's perspective, I am unconvinced that reconstructed breasts would accomplish the same thing. What most people are unaware of is that the skin covering those lovely mounds of silicone is numb.  Tattooed, reconstructed or salvaged nipples are also numb.  All the nerves have been cut.  My surgery left me with about a four-inch band of numbness that extends across my chest to the arm pits, up to the undersides of my upper arms, and around to the sides of my chest where the underarm meets the back.

While massaging a silicone implant may be arousing for one's husband, I am pretty sure that  I would not find it even remotely arousing.  At least for me, the numb areas on my chest and under my arms feel "gross" when I touch them.  I use a bath brush to wash my underarms so that I don't have to touch them.  I use spray-on deodorant in order to avoid the sensation of pushing a solid deodorant stick up against the skin.  I still hold my breath when I hastily shave the small amounts of hair that grow there.  If you were to try and tickle me under my arms, you would quickly call for an ice pack to soothe the spot where I instinctively punched you.  There is also a sensation of "tightness" that comes with healing.  The skin adheres to the tissue beneath and it feels like a long piece of duct tape is stuck across your chest.  It is not unpleasant, it just is.  In the bedroom, having my husband fondle my potential reconstructed breast would, I predict, be distracting to me.  My adoration for my husband and desire to provide what HE desires would in fact, give me the fortitude to ignore the less-than-sexy sensations of having him touching the numb skin.    If I had some assurance that reconstructed breasts actually accomplished true arousal for the partner, it would weigh heavily in my decision.  From the standpoint of reconstructing for my self image, I do not believe that I require breasts at this point to feel like a woman or to be happy.  I am still me and I don't feel like I need them to be "whole."  The fact that it may be important for him is one reason I would consider surgery.

I would love to see a serious study that surveyed men on their opinions of reconstructed breasts, prosthetics and the naked mastectomy chest.  I would love to provide a completely safe forum for their honest responses to be recorded when they are not being valiant for the sake of a partners feelings.  Hmmmmm, maybe I'll get a grant and do it myself.  When I was considering all my surgical options, I asked my breast surgeon and plastic surgeon about such a study.  I had to restate the question a couple times of times to make it clear I wanted to know about MALE responses to reconstruction.  Neither knew of a survey like that.  I truly believe a survey of that nature would be helpful to women in making such an important decision.  I REALLY want to know what percentage of men find a reconstructed breast attractive enough to be stimulating.    If it turned out that the majority said it worked for them, I would have likely leaned towards reconstruction believing that my husband would fall into the majority.  If it turned out that the majority of men felt reconstructed breasts did not have the desired effect, it might be helpful in a woman's decision process.  One thing is for sure, the decision to reconstruct has more layers than an onion. 

The focus of most reconstruction conversation seems to be confined to a woman's need to restore her own body image which includes how sexually attractive she feels.  That is part of the equation for me too, but I have a need to know that if I were to undergo such surgery and the subsequent replacement surgery for encapsulation, that it would be worth the effort.  If I am going to live with "ten pounds of pressure on my chest all the time," as one survivor described it, I want to know that I would have a high rate of meeting my desired outcomes. 

So, I continue on my journey to see if I really want and need breasts, either prosthetic or implants.  The current state of things is that I am boobless and hate the prosthetics.  That means I don't really have a boob back-up.  I am living 100% sans breasts.  The surgical door of reconstruction is still open to me.  If I choose to reconstruct at any time in the future, the results will likely be less aesthetic because of scar tissue that forms between the chest wall and the skin, making the resulting reconstruction less smooth in appearance.  Waiting also means I would have two incision lines coming off of the nipple area.  If I had had immediate reconstruction, they could have hidden the incisions and possibly salvaged nipples.  All these disadvantages to waiting were not explained to me pre-op.  I had to find them out on my own.  I don't think I would have changed my decision not to immediately reconstruct, but I might have.  I am just as curious as you are where this process of discovery will take me. 

What I can tell you is that you should "smoke 'em while you got 'em."  Enjoy your breasts with a new respect and appreciation for their contribution to who you are and the pleasure they offer in the realm of love.  Take good care of them, but never, never ever, turn your back on them in case they try to kill you.  Don't be a boob, do your monthly exam and get your mammograms from age 40 on.  Don't miss a year.  It could be the difference between "You caught it early." or "You have metastasis."  Now, go buy a really sexy bra, something scandalous and lacey, perhaps a demi-cup, and surprise your husband.  Then, when you are wondering what color to paint the ceiling tonight, give me a mental nod!

Sorry for the delay...I just had my hip replaced!

I am five weeks post right total hip replacement and doing fantastic.  The months leading up to that were incredibly painful, sleepless and draining.  Now that recovery is nearly complete and I am not living in the significant chronic pain 24/7, I am dying to get back on the writing horse and share with you the nitty gritty of post-mastectomty life as well as the blessings that come with it.  Trust me, there ARE blessings and they surprise you  in the form of opportunities, amazing people I might not have met without getting cancer and simply in the form of sunsets, smiles, being loved and having the opportunity to love.  My journey has been filled with difficulties, but truly, my heart is full of joy because my life is in God's hands.  I know who He is.  I know what He has promised.  I know He is a god of His word.  I know what He has done for me and all of us.  Knowing God, our Heavenly Father, the Son, Jesus Christ the Messiah, and being filled with the amazing power of the Holy Spirit is the source of my joy and strength.  If I die today, the only thing that matters that I might have left undone was sharing with you my well of happiness and strength.  Because I believe that we were created in the image of God, I believe that we are spiritual beings.  We are attracted to beauty, truth and love because we are created by God.  My hope is that you will nurture your spiritual self.  Often the "hole" people feel in their lives is the undeveloped spiritual self.  Seek God and He promised He will meet you.  Get to know Him through His own words.  Pick up the New Testament (I like the New International Version), Read the first four books: Matthew, Mark, Luke and John.  This will tell you who Jesus is.  Then read Romans (16 short little chapters that apply to every single person past and present).  Then, try to let the love and grace of God sink in.  I don't promote any one denomination over another, but I adhere to the theology of the protestant reformation.  I offer that if you have questions, seek out a pastor or solid Christian from any protestant church and explore where the Holy Spirit guides you.  Once you let God in your life and begin nurturing your own spirit with the word of God, the curtains will be pulled back from your view of life and the world system.  You will have peace and be connected to the love, mercy and care of the one true God who made you.  Peace be with all of you.  God be with all of you.     

"Pretty Pathetic" Prosthetics

Protracted intensity would be one way I would summarize my year of cancer diagnosis and treatment. The intensity of life under those circumstances is not always negative, but it is, nevertheless, INTENSE. In an effort to curb the intensity after my first lumpectomy in November 2009, we decided to plan a get-away weekend to the beach in early December. We promised to have a cancer-free weekend with a moratorium on all cancer conversation. Aside from my post-surgical, glow-in-the-dark, "auroraboobealis" breast, it was sure to be a good time. I was very pleased that the lumpectomy hardly altered the shape of my left breast. I felt good. I felt hopeful. I felt frisky. I still had my long hair and generous "rack." I felt absolutely cherished by my husband. And I was absolutely clueless about what lay ahead in the coming months.

We checked into our favorite place, The Surfrider, and commenced with our usual coastal habits of chowder sampling, red wine sipping and general frolicking. It was a fabulous time. It was so good in fact, we went again in April amidst chemo treatments to recharge our batteries.

In July 2010, I began emerging from the formidable fog of chemo. The pace of life and it's demands rushed in like water flooding a bowl when it is submerged under water. Five months of chemo had created a semi-surreal, slow-motion quality to my life. Once it started to clear in July, things were "game on." I continued getting short of breath with long stretches of walking and still needed to nap deep into the fall. It was not easy keeping up with school commuting, school sports, work,home and farm life.

It was evident that Rog and I could use another weekend at the coast as an antidote to the crush of daily life. The "crush" had definitely taken a bite out of our intimate activities, but I also had insecurities emerging that the reduction in "fun" might be related to being "rack-less." Vagrant thoughts like these were never far from reach when I would change into my nightie at bedtime.

What had previously been a robust contributor in our connubial connection was unequivocally GONE for good. With chemo in the rear view mirror and surgical healing more than complete, I wondered what our new "normal" would be. I hoped that we weren't living it right now, because even without checking with him, I was pretty sure the new normal wasn't really satisfying for either of us.

How could I impact this, I queried myself. How could I spice things up? It was not as easy as buying a new, hot, little number like in past slumps, or was it? That was when I had the bold idea to surprise him on our upcoming trip with boobs, silicone boobs, but still boobs. I was working on the assumption that ANY boobs are better than no boobs to a guy.

Unfortunately, I had the epiphany to procure boobs about five days before we were set to leave. Would this be enough time to accomplish my mission? I hoped so. I was actually getting excited about this surprise. I called my surgeon to get a new prosthetic prescription because I had lost the one she had written ten months earlier at a post-mastectomy appointment. I had not pursued it before because I wanted to see what it would be like to go without boobs. I wanted to collect my own data about whether I really needed to wear prosthetics on any emotional or physical level.

With our sex life waning, I decided it was time to dip my toes in the pool of silicone simulations. I had pretty high hopes because they have been around a long time and had surely been improved upon, right? I remember when my high spirited, cancer survivor friend proudly announced she had finally gotten her "girls." "Go ahead and feel 'em," she invited, puffing her chest out towards me. Naturally, I did what I was told and put both hands up to cop a feel. Wow, I was impressed! They felt like real boobs and looked great under her sweater. I was still squeezing and pressing around on them when I broke myself away, remembering that we were standing in the open kitchen at church during Coffee Hour! What must everyone be thinking?!!!

My friend admitted that she finally got her prosthetics because one person too many had asked her if she was pregnant without them. I had noticed that I looked pregnant too after the mastectomies. Boobs had helped visually balance my belly fat and without them, much to my chagrin, my collection of abdominal adipose magically magnified.

Only two places in Portland provide prosthetic fittings. I chose Nordstrom's because they were conveniently located and I love their philosophy of service and quality. I wasn't sure what to expect as I made my fitting appointment, but I was confident that it would be topnotch. I met my consultant in the lingerie department and she took my insurance card and wrangled all the necessary paperwork for me while I took a seat in Children's Shoes because it was taking so long. I had to admit that it felt more than bizarre to present my insurance card instead of a VISA in Nordstrom's!

When she returned, she apologized for the wait and I followed her into the fitting rooms where we occupied the larger, handicapped stall. I was feeling really good about all of this so far. I was not nervous, emotional or sad. I was still hopeful that getting fitted would be a slam-dunk and I would walk out with a silver Nordie's bag holding my new best friends. So, I was surprised when I removed my top for her to begin the fitting, that I was swiftly overwhelmed with such sadness and grief. My eyes immediately began dripping alligator tears and I pulled my hands up to cover my contorted face. That moment of standing naked in front of the consultant in the cold, fluorescent light of the dressing room had unhinged something in me.

She was young and she was obviously new at this. She did not know how to react or comfort me. All she could say was, "The scars will fade." "Oh, I know. I'm sorry. I didn't think I was going to cry. I'm fine, really. Sorry," I managed to squeeze these words past the prickly, kiwi-sized lump in my throat. I had to ask for tissues.

Retrospectively analyzing the overwhelm, I think it had something to do with this being another marker as to the permanence of my new condition. This stranger had to be let in on my secret ugliness and deficiency. I was not going to grow new breasts. This was it. I was here for replacements. I managed to pull myself together and turn on my self-effacing humor and make friendly conversation with the consultant.

She had to make multiple departures to and from the stall to fetch alternate sizes and fitting bras, all the while I was left standing half naked with boxes of boobs cluttering the only place to sit. It would have been nice if there had been a chair and an light robe to put on for the appointment. I still intend to write Nordstrom's and offer my suggestions for the next breast cancer client.

Prosthetics come in different shapes and sizes to compensate for the amount of tissue that was removed. I tried on different sizes thinking I might want to downsize a bit, but the C-cup looked like mosquito bites on my large frame. Damn. Oh, alright, we'll try a D-cup. Looks good. I'll take 'em. Are we done? No? Insurance pays for four bras to house the boobs, go shopping. The nice thing about Nordstrom's is that their seamstress will sew pouches on any bra you choose. This means a woman is not limited to the industrial-looking bras usually associated with prosthetics. This cheered me up a bit and I browsed the racks with a lighter heart.

I was able to find a few bras that were pretty enough, whose designs were big enough to conceal the prosthetic, but not big enough to bivouac in. My new selection of bras was nothing like my old cache of frilly, sensuous Victoria's Secret sundries, but it was still better than nothing. The good news was that the seamstress could be done as soon as tomorrow afternoon. The bad news was that this Nordstrom only had one of the prosthetics I needed and it was closing time.

Wearing only one boob was definitely not going to accomplish my mission. I had to have the other member of this set and I needed it by the next evening. This is where my consultant saved the day. She located another size D and drove on her own time to pick it up. I was very touched by this effort and made sure to fill out a customer satisfaction card and bring her a gift when I retrieved my new "girls" the next day.

Finally, we checked-in at The Surfrider Friday night. We opened a bottle of wine, red of course, and stretched out on the bed to watch some mindless TV. Now, I had to seriously plot how I was going to introduce the new "girls" to Rog. Prosthetics are individually packaged in boxes large enough to hold a small cake, so I had to put them in the bra I wanted to use in advance of the trip or Rog would have been asking about the extra "luggage." After relaxing a bit and after enough wine to bolster my courage (I was actually feeling kind of nervous now), I announced I was going to take a bubble bath. I did draw a bubble bath, but was only in it long enough to wash "the goods" so as to buy time to don my new accouterments and to situate everything.

Well, as you might of guessed, it did not go as smoothly as I had planned. I found myself fighting with the prosthetics for about 15 minutes in an effort to get them to stay up where they were supposed to be. I did not win the fight. It turns out the soft pouch material the seamstress used was not stiff enough to provide a rigid backdrop for the fake boob. Without a strong backing, the prosthetic slumps down in the pouch. Oh, crap, now I've gone from no boobs to saggy boobs and a bra that looks like it doesn't fit. In the fitting room, the fake boobs stuck to my skin like vinyl window clings, which made the bra look great.

Standing in front of the huge motel bathroom mirror, I struggled and fiddled with the boobs, the bra and my posture until I could feel frustration mounting. This is not good. This does not lead to sex. Me, angry and agitated, is not the surprise I wanted to give Rog tonight. I refuse to be mad or cry, I told myself. Besides, this was the first time I had bothered to put on make-up in months. I had to salvage this. My confidence in surprising Rog with my new set was seriously beginning to fade. The effect I was hoping for was simply not materializing like I planned.

I was ramping up with anxiety and feeling like a pimply-faced, self-conscious junior high school girl. I looked up from messing with the boobs and stared straight into my reflection and ordered myself to, "STOP!" Okay, take a deep breath. This is still better than nothing. Odds are that eventhough the presentation may be flawled, he will still like the overall effect. Let the agitation run off. Be brave. You love him so much, you must not blow this. This is about him, not you. He loves you and will appreciate this. Now stop talking to yourself and put on that new nightie that lets the bra peak over the edge. Be confident or at least fake it. Open the door and go to him, you moron. But do I just show up with boobs or do I say something as I come around the corner? Oh, geeze, this feels so awkward. I think I feel a little nauseated. Could you be more rididculous? You are such a moron. Okay, here we go. "Are you ready for a surprise?" I asked, tentatively stepping out from the sanctuary of the bathroom.

When I rounded the corner into full view, my eyes locked on his face like a sci-fi tractor beam. Would his response cause me to feel even more foolish than I already felt? Would I be able to catch him stealing away one reaction to front a loving and supportive husband response? I can't really explain why it was so hard to walk out there with fake boobs on, but I really did want to make a joke about it and hide by folding myself over into a ball. It was all I could do to continue walking over to him as he put down his book and sat up on the side of the bed. A slow, steady smile began to spread across his face as he watched me approach. Oh, thank God. I could breath again. With the pressure lessened, I began to chatter nonsense until he had to silence me by pressing his finger to his lips, saying, "Shhhhhh, Let me just take you in." I was actually grateful for permission to shut up. Okay, this is going to be okay. You did it. You gave him a pleasant surprise. Good girl. I'm sure it is no surprise what happened next.

To Reconstruct or Not to Reconstruct, that is the question...

If you are wondering why I did not choose to have reconstructive surgery when I had the mastectomies, I would kindly ask you to scroll down to Hooter Hotline #4, "The Tenth Circle of Hell." It was a big decision. If I had not been faced with wrestling all surgical options personally, I would never have known how complex such a decision is.

At first glance, the concept of reconstruction with implants almost seems expected, the norm. Our culture is saturated with conversations about breast enhancement. It's not difficult to name a dozen celebrities or acquaintances with implants. It makes me think of pleading with my mother for my first pair of blue jeans in the mid-1970s, "Everyone has a pair," I begged. It used to be sort of scandalous to have breast implants, but now it is no different than having a nose piercing or tattoo.

Now that I've been on the other side of the dilemma, I know that I too, have been guilty of assuming, "She has to have mastectomies? At least she can get reconstructive surgery, pick the size she wants and get on with her life." Some how I felt better knowing that women had this option to be "whole again." It sounded so reasonable, so simple, but I was not prepared for the perplexing decision it became. There were more than a few folks, who upon hearing that I was not having reconstruction, seemed shocked that it was not the obvious thing to do.
Just so you are all up to speed, I want to share my rationale for not choosing reconstruction at the time, which happens to be how I feel about the subject today. By the time the pathology from the second lumpectomy revealed that I had widespread ductal insitu, the mastectomy part of the decision was easy, if not a true relief. No more dancing around the "what ifs" of removing one or both breasts. Now I was facing a third surgery by month three of my diagnosis and I just needed to be done and get on with healing. Reconstructive surgery combined with mastectomies requires more recovery time, more pain and a series of fluid injections in the spacers that create the pouch behind the pectoral muscle where the implant will be placed. The uncomfortable creation of the pouches would happen while going through chemo. Uhhhhhhhhhhhhh, I'm thinking chemo will be enough of a challenge without adding insult to injury.

My oncologist mentioned at one of my appointments that a reconstruction patient had actually called in and cancelled her chemo appointment because she was having so much discomfort from her fluid injection the day prior. It might just be me, but something is wrong with that picture. A doctor shared with me the results of a study which found that many women (between 50-60%) are not happy with their reconstructive surgery and regret it. Wow, that is an impressive percentage, certainly big enough for me not make a hasty decision about it because "it's the thing to do." I sought out women that had various forms of reconstruction as well as those without. At work, at Christmas parties, they took me into closets or pantries and showed me their work. They were very honest about what implants were like. I would like to salute the women who were so frank with me. It was such a loving and giving act to let me in on the "secret life" of reconstruction or life without reconstruction. They helped me sort through the fray and ground me with their own reality. One woman said that her implants felt like there was always ten pounds of pressure on her chest.

I remember asking the plastic surgeon to show me reconstruction photos at my consultation. I looked at several women's photos and was struck by how unnatural they looked. There were more incision lines and asymmetry than I had imagined. Some had tattooed nipples, some had salvaged nipples and some had none. Honestly, I don't think they were any less ugly than my current situation. Reconstruction did have some advantages though; restoring a feminine profile, recreating cleavage and filling out undergarments/clothing for a natural look. A breast cancer survivor friend of my gave me her opinion of reconstruction, "They're not the ones God gave ya!" After my brief investigation, it seemed to me that reconstruction was not necessarily the close substitute for the real McCoy that most folks think. Regardless of whether a woman chooses reconstruction or not, she will have a 4-6 inch swath of numb skin across her chest where breasts once were. My decision not to reconstruct was also bolstered by the knowledge that I could get the surgery done at a later date if I wished.

So what about now? I love the freedom of not wearing a bra every day. I feel kind of "rogue" being unabashedly flat-chested. I'll tell you tomorrow about my episode with the silicone prosthesis and why I leave them on the piano..., but now, I can wear any blouse I want without double D's deflecting wardrobe choices. On the other hand, any hint of benefit rapidly evaporates when I pass through a room wearing a lace-trimmed spaghetti strap cami and I catch my husband's gaze shift instinctively where "the girls" had been. My wish in that moment is not that I had reconstructed, but that I could still offer him the soft, sensitive, beautiful set God gave me. My sense is that reconstruction can't measure up to that.

"Ya wanna see my scars?"

I had only been chatting with the woman in the KAO office about five minutes. I stopped by to pick up a few more postcards before we left for the Gila Cliff dwellings. Sporting the Navajo jewelry I'd picked up in Santa Fe, she commented that my new earrings looked cute with my short hair. "This is exactly one year's growth since my last chemo," I exclaimed as I reached up and patted the relaxed curls that were chemo's silver lining. That was all it took to jetison two complete strangers into an intimate converstation which might not have happened with people I've known for years. She asked me about my cancer and shared the story of a woman in her church with metastatic breast cancer. I remarked that last year will go down as one of the best years of my life. She looked surprised at hearing that, so I explained that the journey had been filled with joy as I was prayed and loved through every step of treatment. I had literally been carried on prayer during the three surgeries and eight rounds of chemo. The palpable support I experienced was more than meals delivered or get well cards received and was not a figment of my imagination. She told me about how her friend had benefitted from prayer as well. "Now I am trying to find my way in dealing with life without breasts," I said. "I miss them. The 'girls' were the super highway to 'joy valley' and now its been a little tough finding a way to 'get the party started' without all the usual players," I explained. "Having to cut off your breasts 'cause they were trying to kill you is like having a bridge washout on a major road. You have to find an unexplored detour route and it doesn't always feel right," I continued. And the truth be told, sometimes you don't even feel like getting in the car. This is were something ironic happened. I admitted to her that I still don't let my husband see my chest. I think it is ugly. I think that he would think it was ugly. At that point, I blurted out, "Ya wanna see my scars?" She nodded immediately. Right there in front of a woman whose name I still don't know, I lifted the front of my t-shirt up to my face to reveal what I avoid letting my husband see, my breastless, scarred chest. My bilateral scars are very long and uneven. The stretchmarks from nursing engorgement on the skin under my breasts still remain and meet the incision line. I think this adds to how unattractive my post-surgical chest looks. My left armpit area has a wider and jagged scar from extra tissue removal for excising the sentinel node. The result is an uneven appearance. "Oh," she said, not too startled. "I think it has been hard for my husband. Guys are so visual," I said. "But, if he loves you," she started to object. "Oh, he loves me, but guys are just wired differently than we are. Breasts matter, though he would NEVER let me think it matters to him now that I don't have any." "Of course," she agreed. We talked a little more, shared mutual encouragement and then we met at the end of the glass case of trinkets and had a wonderful hug. It was the kind of a hug your sister would give you, two arms wrapped solidly around your back, applying meaningful pressure and concluding with a of couple pats to communicate that she really meant it. I left the office/gift shop feeling very connected to an awesome woman who infused me with a bit more courage to explore my new detour.

Okay, I hear you! It's been a year without a new posting. My thoughts got log-jammed on chemo...I wanted to present a chronological description of each unique treatment, but that is causing me to delay putting all the current noise in my head in print regarding living without boobs. I intend to be EXTREMELY frank with you about my new reality and it's impact on my marriage, intimacy and my view of myself. In other words, this may not be appropriate reading for your 12 year-old... More to come...soon...I promise...by the way, even though life without boobs is a bummer at some very important times, wink, wink, life remains good, very good. I hope you are all well and happy to be on this side of the grass like I am!